


Lol IDK Let Ed’s Head Spin

by WRC8620



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Episode S04E15 The Sinking Ship The Grand Applause, I’m afraid that people will dismiss this story because of the dumb working title, M/M, Oswald is concerned, Pining Edward Nygma, Riddler thinks and spaces out a lot, Season/Series 4, because I need more of that honestly, but honestly I couldn’t think of a good title and just left it at that, hope it would still be a good read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25828510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WRC8620/pseuds/WRC8620
Summary: The world tilts, and all he sees is black.A flash of red, of sad songs and sadder eyes. Unceasingly drip drip dripping in his bed, whispering of what could have been. Twin fates. A match made in hell. Forgiveness, too cruel a word.And now he’s kneeling, as if in penance for a god he doesn’t believe in, or for a lover that never was; his favorite view the last thing he’ll see.______________________I got so bored waiting for my cousin and our friend to finish watching season 4 so I could rant about how stupid some things are but also how fabulous Lee and Oswald look, so I mashed pretty words together till it formed a fanfic.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 18
Kudos: 42





	Lol IDK Let Ed’s Head Spin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221blackandwhitestripes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221blackandwhitestripes/gifts).



> I once read Oswald keeping his feelings in a box and I dreamt abt that but this time it’s pining, in-denial Ed. Suffer.

Unlike what they say, he doesn’t see his life flash before him at the end _(too many scars, too many mistakes, too many lost chances)_. Instead he sees his life, or what’s left of it, flash forward. Anticipation, he could see it like it’s already happened.

He’s falling _down down down_ into inky black water. His body would be covered in seaweed and grime, the occasional meal for aquatic life. No doubt to be washed up in a shore somewhere, a blob of green stripped of name and legacy.

The world tilts, and all he sees is _black_.  
A flash of red, of sad songs and sadder eyes. Unceasingly _drip drip dripping_ in his bed, whispering of what could have been. Twin fates. A match made in hell. Forgiveness, too cruel a word.

And now he’s kneeling, as if in penance for a god he doesn’t believe in, or for a lover that never was; his favorite view the last thing he’ll see.

How did he get here? Moments ago, only strapped to a chair against his will, not once giving up a man who would always, always hurt anyone to get what he wants. Still, a sliver of hope inched under his skin. Foolish and naive, like a self he renounces. A remnant of a different life, of different men _(unfortunately, he never did let go)_.

So this is how it ends? Surrounded by idiots, to walk off the short end of a pier, dead and forgotten? All because he never learnt how to let go. How fitting. He supposes it’s only fair. An eye for an eye. A bullet for a bullet. It almost seems poetic, fated even. ( _A bullet in his brain where he put a bullet in his Heart)._

The goons behind him mock his art form. They’ve been hounding him nonstop ever since they left the mansion, snickering like hyenas. If he spends another second listening to their inane drivel he might just pop that bullet in his skull himself.

The least they could do is get it overwith.  
At least let him die on his own terms.

His favorite view and his favorite interest are the last things he’ll ever hear or see.

It’s beautiful in a way, no matter how marred they’ve become _(tainted by rejections and confessions and pebbles in pockets, hands slapped away still reaching back)_. But that’s how his life always was, wasn’t it? Filled with beautiful things, bruised and twisted into something ugly.

_(Like cracked glasses or paper dolls. Like mom’s tired purpled eyes and long scratchy sleeves. Like stirring the ashes of a burning friendship, of soft glances in meetings and softer kisses on shoulders.  
Familiar. Cherished. Desecrated.)_

And his mind is running a mile a minute, pushing away thoughts he revels in no longer. Never again. _(Shoves them in a box deep in the recesses of his reclaimed mind. Reserved only for those nights when His warmth burned too close, when the nights grew cold and his bed grew colder)._

For once he wishes to stop thinking.

_“Just do it!”_

—————-

Two shots echo, ringing against his skull. He opens his eyes. _He’s alive._

The ground is solid, the sky is grey, his life is hell, and _he’s alive_. He’s alive, and he’s never been more confused. He recovers quickly, already on his feet. Grabbing the nearest gun, he swept around, taking aim at the new assailant.

A determined gait, patented and unmistakable. His breath hitches, his mind awhirl.

_What in the world._

Gun in hand, decked in stripes and windswept hair. _There he was_. Oswald Cobblepot, twice-ex-Arkhamite and ally-at-the-moment, the man who ruined his life.

_(Saved his life. Saved him a pitiful death. Why?)_

_(Why?)_

Fate seemed to have smiled at him, for a few seconds at least. But she came in the form of a Penguin seeking retribution _(loyalty? allies? long-game revenge?)._

And here they are on this godforsaken pier. Again.

This is where it always ends. The dock beneath them, a gun between them. Wind howling and air frigid. He adjusts his grip on the gun, tilting his head in suspicion, apprehension, not unfamiliar. Answers, needed. There were questions rattling in his brain, and he was itching to ask. So he does.

“How.. did you already kill Sofia?”

“..No.” _What_. “She left the mansion to pursue Jim Gordon.” Oswald had this _look_ , somewhere between a deep pout and a narrow-eyed grimace.

“Why didn’t you just stay at the home? Wait till she came there and killed her?” _Why?_

“Then I wouldn’t have been here on time.” _What._

“You gave up your revenge for me?” _Why?_

_(Why?)_

_(Why?)_

_(Why?)_

Oswald glances at the sea line, solemn, mouth gaping and closing. In disbelief or contemplation, he’s not sure. He turns back to him, looks at Ed as if the answer was right in front of his face _(what has four eyes)._ Hoping his expression does not give much away, despite wanting Ed to understand. He exhales, shoulders sagging. _Do I really have to say it?_

Long-dulled warmth seeps into his tongue, poisoning his words with things best left unsaid. He answers anyway.

“Trust is so very hard to find in Gotham.” He nods to himself. Purses his lips in thought, eyes unreadable. “But I trust you, Ed.”

_I trust you, Ed._

He’s always just full of surprises.

The clouds overhead gather above him, clear skies ahead. Wind grazes the Riddler’s cheek, the blood cooling down his neck. A sharp pang throbs still in his gums. Oswald pockets his gun away. He _(retreats? surrenders? pities?)_ reassures him of his lack of ill intent. A sign of goodwill.

The Riddler complies in truce, _(promises made)_ placing the gun on his trousers, per lack of holster.

And the loop is broken, if fate favors his guts, indefinitely. He stands by his side, taking the sight in _(hopefully)_ for the last time.

—————-

“I have a _strong_ desire,” he starts, “to never _ever_ see this pier again.”

An olive branch. A promise. Of new beginnings and perhaps, something better.

Oswald scoffs. “ _I agree._ ”

And with that, they walk away from the edge, an unspoken pact, leaving behind rejections and confessions and grudges past.  
They limp together in some parody of each other. Oswald glances up at him, noting his disheveled, bloodied state.

  
“We should get that looked at.” The Riddler slows his pace behind him. _We._  
“I’m quite familiar with the Dentist’s work. He was once in my employ, after all.” He continues. Oswald’s nose scrunches up for a second. _Ah, a traitor then._

That’s becoming a recurring thing lately. _(Not that it was new in their line of work)_. First Sofia, then Zsasz, then his most recent torturer. Perhaps in the short time they were separated, others as well _(Mr. Penn, Jim Gordon, etc etc etc)._

The Riddler was his last resort then, he thinks. He doesn’t know how to feel about that. Luckily, he was snapped out of his thoughts before he opens that can of worms. Oswald had asked him something.

“What was that?”

“I said, what else did they do to you?” He repeats. The disgraced kingpin’s eyes darkened but he didn’t hold his gaze.

Oswald seethes silently, cursing traitors and traitors and _traitors_. A pointed stare at something in the distance, reeling back some to keep his composure in front of his injured companion.  
It’s almost nostalgic, how he worries. Something familiar and unwelcome flutters deep in his ribcage. The Riddler tamps it back down, puts it away in a box.

“My leg. Stabbed. Scalpel.”

Oswald nods. “We could patch that up easily enough, and soon we could reassess our plan: finishing off that _painted witch_ Sofia.” He glowered, huffing. He gestures at Riddler’s chin and thigh. “I’d hope the good doctor would assist us— you. With your injuries. If not, I might have someone in hand. I just want to warn you in advance, he’s a fairly sketchy character.” _We. Our. Us._ Dizzying _._

_(Like a sharp turn in the right direction. Or camera flashes, a palm on his cheek. Or impromptu duets and a firm shake of his shoulder, grounding and warm. Crackling flames, promises made.)_

Oswald brings him back, lightly tapping his shoulder, hesitant.

“Ed? They didn’t mess with your _head_ , did they? You‘ve been spacing out. I wouldn’t want an ally’s most valuable asset scrambled.” He chuckles, low and breathy, prompting a joke.

Of course, Oswald needs him as an _ally_ , his mind an asset. Everyone else has turned on him or repudiated allegiance.  
Disposing of Falcone would create a power vacuum. Territories up for grabs, gangs and the rabble in a mad scramble, in need of order and a firm hand. Something the feathered felon guarantees to provide once he’s found his footing once again.

The Riddler isn’t particularly interested in money or power, but perhaps he could lend a hand and get something in return.  
He’s already proven himself to Oswald in that chair _(the perks of being his more durable self)._

He could become invaluable to him again. Reap the benefits of a partnership. Stand by his side as— No.

_No_. He’s past that. He can stand on his own now. He’s more than _Edward Nygma_ , chief-of-staff, right hand man. He’s no _sidekick_ , and he doesn’t need Oswald anymore. Nor does he need him.

He hates being indebted, so he would honor their truce and be of assistance for the time being, but nothing more _(nothing more)_ , lest they shatter their hold on their already tenuous business relationship. Eggshells, moths, flames and all that.

_Flames_.

He once compared themselves to flames. Efficient, fast-acting, powerful. They consume and devour once they get a taste, so it’s best not to get ahead of themselves and get burnt again _(no matter how good the glory days were)_.

Side by side, the two of them against the world, holding both worlds of Gotham in the palm of their hands _(A palm on his knee)_. Yes, those days were gone and it’s time to start anew, so no turning back. _(A hand on his back, a smile on his neck, feathery wisps tickling his nose, a sharp heady fragrance soaking every wall of an empty house, left unsaid and locked away, key swallowed up by unforgiving waters until it’s no more)_. Not anymore.

  
It is their mutual destruction, their own brand of exquisite macabre. Mirror Icaruses, they’ll only burn each other down.

Oswald clears his throat to get his attention, tilting his head, questioning and bird-like. He quirks his brow, lips pursed light, wondering if Edward did get hit in the head one too many times. The Riddler looks down from the middle distance above Oswald’s head to reply, but his eyes _(to his unending horror)_ trace the line of the Penguin’s cupid’s bow. The tips of Oswald’s fingers hover over his crimsoned collar, concerned. Something gets stuck in his throat. He counts the seagulls above Oswald’s head.

No. The Riddler doesn’t.. He _doesn’t_. _(He wills it away, thoughts in the dark, two fingers deep and red, drip, red. Shoves the box somewhere Oswald won’t see)._

“ _What do you care?_ ” He bites, defensive. Not a very grateful gesture towards his latest savior, he thinks. Oswald looked affronted, like the Riddler just insulted his dog. He yanks his hand away from his shoulder as if scalded.

He seemed to struggle for a moment, but ultimately opts not to lash out on account of their tentative partnership. _(Two predators, wary, begrudgingly dependent, building shaky bridges yet hesitant to take the first_ _step_.)

He looks to the side, avoiding Ed’s stare. Oswald had learned his lesson lifetimes ago, on this very pier. So like his conspirator, he hides his chest away, hidden in half-truths and sharp jabs. He leaves bits and pieces of his broken heart in gestures he wishes no one could see.

_(He hopes still. Foolish and naive as the self he’d burned away. Embers still catch flames and he stomps them down like a used cigarette)._

The edges of Riddler’s mouth twitch, a twinge settling somewhere low, dejected _(for reasons he won’t admit, not even to himself. Not yet. Not ever)._  
Oswald sighs, looking up at him once more _(half-truths it is)._

“Of course I care, Ed. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. You should know that.” Fingers ghost the side of his arm, cautious, reassuring. As if the Riddler was some feral, frightened animal. He winces.

 _Of course I care_ he said, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like it’s something Riddler needed to hear.

_(How does he do that? Say things like that like it wouldn’t rattle the Riddler’s spine and push all the air out of his lungs? Like it doesn’t make his pulse trip, his fingers spark, pressing crescents into his palms? Because it doesn’t, it doesn’t. He’s not Ed. He doesn’t trip)._

Defiant, he finally looks him in the eyes _(and he freezes)_. As all he sees is black and, blue, and _green green green_. _(The dichotomy of a bond formed under flickering neon and the severed tendons of his bleeding Heart, sinking under rolling waves.)_

  
Black. Blue. Green.  
_Black pupils unnoticed. Blue lips dripping. Green always was his favorite color._

Oswald pats his arm once, twice. There was a stroke of sincerity in the curve of his jaw, in the glaze of his pale eyes _(crackling flames, promises made, a smile on his neck and he’s melting)._  
And so the lines of the Riddler’s edges soften, apologetic. The Riddler apologizes to no one.

_(But here he was again. Falling down down down into inky black, blue and green. Like nothing happened and everything happened between the two, the three of them. Like it was something meant to be.)_

The wind blows and the sweep of Oswald’s lashes flutter, dark and unassuming. The warmth of his hold seeping into his bones. The Riddler breathes in. _(and the box trembles in his hands)._

“ _Okay._ ” He chokes out. “Okay, sure.”

Oswald smiles, finally. Something for the box. Soft and small and reminiscent of a life they’ve left behind.  
_(Getting burnt might not be as bad as it was)._

The ache in Riddler’s jaw settled into a dull throb. Oswald lets go of his arm in favor of wrapping his coat tighter around his damp Arkham uniform.

He hobbles off the pier, a mop of hair flitting in the wind. Oswald motions for the car, a silent invitation. The Riddler walks briskly, steadily behind him.

Not looking back, perhaps he’s not disinclined to finding a new favorite view.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, Sam, what did you expect? A good way to spend my day on God’s green earth? I don’t think so. The summary sounds misleading wow. I wrote this thing from memory so apologies if I got some details wrong. I haven’t watched s4 in a long time. First fanfic ever (as if there weren’t enough of these 4x15s! Just kidding the more the merrier). Still, hope you enjoyed, Riri/Sam + everyone in the nygmobblepot tag.


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